| Pari Passu: Quotes Collected by the Old Mexican Hippie Surfer Dude |
Who is the Old Mexican Hippie Surfer?
And why is he collecting quotes here? On this site?
The old man (who's actually not that old) is a quiet guy. An independent guy.
Worked at the San Diego Zoo for 25 years and never took a sick day. Rose at 4:15am, out of the house
at 5. Couple times in high school I was just be getting home when he was leaving for work. We were on
different sides of the day. He never said anything. Never gives any advice either -- prefers to just hang
back and watch.
He falls asleep at night with a clock radio tuned into a news channel, the volume turned so low the
voices sound like whispering. Wears his hair long, chin beard long. Goes on long runs even when it
rains.
When I was born the guy was 18 and he misspelled my name. "Mathew" instead of "Matthew."
I live with this.
There was this one plant growing in the backyard that he payed particular attention to. A green thumb
for this little flee-bitten growth alone. If my basketball ever rolled into it he'd shout me down. Hmmm.
Guy drinks Mexican beer. Behind the living room couch hang a couple Frida Kahlo prints.
When I was in grad school he asked if he could borrow the book I'd just finished reading. One Hundred
Years of Solitude. Next time I came home I tossed my bag on our old green couch and said: "Hey, you
ever read that book?"
He nodded.
"Well? What'd you think?" He looked up at me from the couch, working a toothpick. "It's good," he said,
and then he went back to flipping channels.
Good. That's all I got out of the Old Mexican Hippie Surfer.
But later on that night, just as I was leaving, he asked for another one.
I handed him The Plague by Camus.
He told me: "I was thinking, Matt. Maybe you could let me borrow whatever you finish. You know, from
now on."
"Yeah, yeah, no problem," I said. "That's cool." And then I scooped my bag and made my exit.
This went on for five, six years. He started hoarding my books, wouldn't let me take 'em back. Moms
said he'd hide 'em whenever I came home for a visit. Guy stated going behind my back, too, reading
books in between the books I dropped off. Kind of shady behavior, I'm saying.
Then he secretly enrolled himself in a couple JC classes, remedial stuff. Didn't tell anybody.
Accumulated units. Three years later he applied to UC Santa Cruz -- and got in. Declared himself a lit
major. Started writing papers de-constructing Bellow and Marquez and Lispector.
Last time I went home to visit my mom opened the door. We hugged and she took my jacket. I peeked
into the house and there was the Old Mexican Hippie Surfer, legs crossed in the rocking chair, reading
a thick-ass book. He looked up and waved me over: "Come check this out," he said. "I wanna read you
something."
No "hello." No "good to see you again, Matt."
Nah, just "come here."
The book he was holding?Ulysses. He turned to an earmarked page, read a long passage aloud and
then looked at me nodding. "That's why we read Joyce," he said. "That right there, Matt. You see what
I'm saying?"
I nodded, but inside I was like: Who is this guy?
Two years later and he had his BA in lit, he was quoting Kundera between bites of fish taco.
Then he went and broke into showbiz. Played Manuel, the gym custodian, in the movie version of Ball
Don't Lie. Guy had one line during the critical high school game. Delivered it to main character Sticky
and then they shook hands. It was surreal. The Old Mexican Hippie Surfer Dude in a movie. Acting
side-by-side with Grayson and Matthew St. Patrick from Six Feet Under. They shared a scene.
Dude had his own trailer with a bathroom and microwave and AC. Probably hadn't dialed a phone in
nine, ten years and there he was with my mom's cell, buzzing everybody he knew (my two sisters).
Insanity.
I can't help going back to the last thing he said to Brin Hill (director) and executive producer (Michael
Roiff) after the shoot. They both shook hands with him and the Old Mexican Hippie Surfer says:
"Gentlemen, I hope we work together again someday. I was thinking maybe a Western."
Everybody laughed and laughed, including me and him, and then he turned and walked off to sign out for
the night, to check out of his trailer.
But as I watched him leave the gym with my mom, a part of me was thinking: Man, I'm not so sure that
cat was joking.
First he steals my books.
Then he steals my BDL shine.
What's next, man? A damn Pulitzer?
Wait a sec . . . .
And why is he collecting quotes here? On this site?
The old man (who's actually not that old) is a quiet guy. An independent guy.
Worked at the San Diego Zoo for 25 years and never took a sick day. Rose at 4:15am, out of the house
at 5. Couple times in high school I was just be getting home when he was leaving for work. We were on
different sides of the day. He never said anything. Never gives any advice either -- prefers to just hang
back and watch.
He falls asleep at night with a clock radio tuned into a news channel, the volume turned so low the
voices sound like whispering. Wears his hair long, chin beard long. Goes on long runs even when it
rains.
When I was born the guy was 18 and he misspelled my name. "Mathew" instead of "Matthew."
I live with this.
There was this one plant growing in the backyard that he payed particular attention to. A green thumb
for this little flee-bitten growth alone. If my basketball ever rolled into it he'd shout me down. Hmmm.
Guy drinks Mexican beer. Behind the living room couch hang a couple Frida Kahlo prints.
When I was in grad school he asked if he could borrow the book I'd just finished reading. One Hundred
Years of Solitude. Next time I came home I tossed my bag on our old green couch and said: "Hey, you
ever read that book?"
He nodded.
"Well? What'd you think?" He looked up at me from the couch, working a toothpick. "It's good," he said,
and then he went back to flipping channels.
Good. That's all I got out of the Old Mexican Hippie Surfer.
But later on that night, just as I was leaving, he asked for another one.
I handed him The Plague by Camus.
He told me: "I was thinking, Matt. Maybe you could let me borrow whatever you finish. You know, from
now on."
"Yeah, yeah, no problem," I said. "That's cool." And then I scooped my bag and made my exit.
This went on for five, six years. He started hoarding my books, wouldn't let me take 'em back. Moms
said he'd hide 'em whenever I came home for a visit. Guy stated going behind my back, too, reading
books in between the books I dropped off. Kind of shady behavior, I'm saying.
Then he secretly enrolled himself in a couple JC classes, remedial stuff. Didn't tell anybody.
Accumulated units. Three years later he applied to UC Santa Cruz -- and got in. Declared himself a lit
major. Started writing papers de-constructing Bellow and Marquez and Lispector.
Last time I went home to visit my mom opened the door. We hugged and she took my jacket. I peeked
into the house and there was the Old Mexican Hippie Surfer, legs crossed in the rocking chair, reading
a thick-ass book. He looked up and waved me over: "Come check this out," he said. "I wanna read you
something."
No "hello." No "good to see you again, Matt."
Nah, just "come here."
The book he was holding?Ulysses. He turned to an earmarked page, read a long passage aloud and
then looked at me nodding. "That's why we read Joyce," he said. "That right there, Matt. You see what
I'm saying?"
I nodded, but inside I was like: Who is this guy?
Two years later and he had his BA in lit, he was quoting Kundera between bites of fish taco.
Then he went and broke into showbiz. Played Manuel, the gym custodian, in the movie version of Ball
Don't Lie. Guy had one line during the critical high school game. Delivered it to main character Sticky
and then they shook hands. It was surreal. The Old Mexican Hippie Surfer Dude in a movie. Acting
side-by-side with Grayson and Matthew St. Patrick from Six Feet Under. They shared a scene.
Dude had his own trailer with a bathroom and microwave and AC. Probably hadn't dialed a phone in
nine, ten years and there he was with my mom's cell, buzzing everybody he knew (my two sisters).
Insanity.
I can't help going back to the last thing he said to Brin Hill (director) and executive producer (Michael
Roiff) after the shoot. They both shook hands with him and the Old Mexican Hippie Surfer says:
"Gentlemen, I hope we work together again someday. I was thinking maybe a Western."
Everybody laughed and laughed, including me and him, and then he turned and walked off to sign out for
the night, to check out of his trailer.
But as I watched him leave the gym with my mom, a part of me was thinking: Man, I'm not so sure that
cat was joking.
First he steals my books.
Then he steals my BDL shine.
What's next, man? A damn Pulitzer?
Wait a sec . . . .
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